The Viking’s Touch(28)

 He got to his feet and held out his hands, pulling her up after him. ‘Come.’

 They strolled together along the side of the stream among the trees. He had retained a hold of one hand. His own engulfed it, warm and firm, the palm roughened from long use of sword and axe—a warrior’s touch. It sent a tremor the length of her arm.

 They paused once to watch a kingfisher dive, a vivid dart of blue and orange against the green. A silver flash announced the captured fish and then the bird flew off. Anwyn smiled, immeasurably gladdened by the sight. She knew the feeling only partly attributable to the kingfisher; most of it was due to the man beside her. Just being in his company was enough to lift her heart and lighten her spirit.

 ‘The bird is wise. This is a good place to fish,’ he said then. ‘Look there. See the trout?’

 Anwyn followed his pointing finger to the centre of the stream where several large fish finned against the current. Without warning he grabbed her waist, pushing her forwards. She shrieked, only to find herself snatched back to safety at the last moment. Outraged, she turned accusingly.

 ‘You beast!’

 ‘I crave your pardon, my lady.’

 ‘If you want my pardon, you must first wipe that smile off your face.’

 ‘I regret that I cannot.’

 ‘We’ll see about that.’

 She grabbed a clump of willow herb and advanced on him. Wulfgar allowed her to get close, then turned and seized hold of her, lifting her off her feet. Then he strode towards the stream. Anwyn struggled hard.

 ‘Wulfgar, no!’

 He held her easily. ‘Perhaps the water may cool your fiery temper.’

 She clutched his tunic in desperation. ‘Do this, and I swear I’ll never speak to you again.’

 He checked on the margin, grinning. ‘In truth, that would be too terrible a fate to contemplate. I must think of another forfeit.’

 Heart pounding, Anwyn glared at him. ‘You will not!’

 ‘Say you so?’

 His expression then was not calculated to reassure. She renewed her struggles, to his evident enjoyment.

 ‘Of course it may take me a while.’

 ‘Wulfgar, put me down!’

 ‘I dare not, for fear of the reprisal.’

 ‘It would serve you right.’

 He walked slowly along the bank. His fighting burden seemed to cause him not the least inconvenience, a factor which served only to increase her ire. Wulfgar glanced down.

 ‘Aye, anger suits you. I’ve always thought so.’

 For a moment she was dumbfounded. Then her sense of the ridiculous returned and she gave a reluctant laugh.

 ‘Do you know that you’re the most impossible man?’

 ‘You are not the first to say so.’

 ‘I’ll wager I’m not, and that they were all women who said it.’

 ‘I can’t deny it.’

 She surveyed him speculatively. ‘I won’t ask how many women.’

 His lips twitched. ‘Are you jealous?’

 ‘Certainly not!’

 ‘Pity. I was really hoping you might be.’

 Anwyn tried to restrain welling laughter, but it escaped anyway. He heard it and smiled, regarding her keenly.

 ‘Anger does suit you,’ he said, ‘but laughter suits you even better.’

 She wasn’t sure how to respond to that and so said nothing. Something in his look set her heart to beating much faster, and she was suddenly supremely aware of it and him. This enforced nearness was still a cause for ire, only now it was directed at herself for enjoying it.

 He carried her back to the waiting horses before he set her down. Acutely conscious of her dishevelled appearance and of the appreciative smile on his lips, Anwyn felt her face grow warm.

 ‘I must redo my hair. I cannot go back looking like this.’

 ‘Like what?’

 ‘Like a wanton.’

 ‘A wanton? What a delicious thought.’ The words called forth an indignant glare. The smile became a grin. ‘Turn around.’

 ‘Why?’

 ‘Must you always argue?’

 Taking her by the shoulders, he turned her firmly round. Moments later she felt the weight of her hair drawn back.

 ‘What are you doing?’

 ‘Ensuring you don’t return looking like a wanton,’ he replied.

 He drew her ribbon from the pocket of his tunic. Then he divided the fiery mass of hair into three sections and began to re-braid it, weaving in the ribbon as he went. He was surprisingly competent.

 ‘Where do you learn to do that?’ she asked.

 ‘I’ve had a lot of practice over the years.’

 ‘Oh? What kind of practice?’

 Wulfgar smiled quietly to himself. ‘Horses’ manes.’

 Another gurgle of laughter bubbled up. ‘Liar.’

 ‘What a base idea you do have of me.’

 ‘No, a very shrewd idea,’ she returned.

 ‘A worrying thought. Am I so easy to read?’

 ‘In truth, no. I hardly ever know what you are thinking.’

 ‘Perhaps that’s just as well.’

 She made no answer, deciding it would be safer not to probe.

 He finished the task and tied the ribbon securely, surveying his handiwork with a critical eye.

 ‘It would have been better if I’d had a comb to hand, but it will serve.’

 Anwyn, examining the braid, was quietly impressed. He had done a creditable job.

 ‘Thank you.’

 ‘My pleasure,’ he replied.

 He watched her remount and then swung astride his own horse, bringing it alongside. They rode in companionable silence for a while and Wulfgar wondered anew what kind of man Torstein must have been. Just a few hours spent in her presence had been enough to reveal the playful side of Anwyn’s nature. What man, seeing her laugh, would not want to see it often? What man could fail to enjoy her spirit and quick wits? Never once had he been bored with her companionship. Indeed, the more he had of it the more he wanted. It stimulated on so many levels.

 Unwilling to break into his private reverie Anwyn said nothing. It was pleasant just to be with him, to share his company awhile. In truth, she had never thought to enjoy a man’s company as she did now, but then he was different from the rest. It was hard to believe that he was her husband, nominally at least. He had proved honourable in so many unexpected ways. The events of the afternoon had left her in no doubt that he wanted her, or that he could easily have forced her. Would it have been force in the end, when even his kiss weakened her resolution to the point where she hardly recognised herself? She shivered inwardly. If she yielded to this impulse, it could only lead to heartache.





Chapter Fourteen

She did not linger late at table that evening, pleading fatigue. In truth, the day’s events had proved unexpectedly draining for all manner of reasons and she wanted nothing more than to seek her chamber and bed. Wulfgar surveyed her critically, seeing at once the tiredness in her eyes.

 ‘Go then, Anwyn, and rest. I’ll be along later.’

 The words jolted her back to realisation that she would not lie alone this night, either.

 ‘As you will, my lord.’

 Having said her goodnights to Ina and Hermund, she left them. Her chamber was a haven of peace after the noise of the hall. Sliding into bed, she left the lamp for Wulfgar. Since he was not yet wholly familiar with the layout of the room, he might not be best pleased at having to stumble around in the dark. Her earlier anxiety about this unwonted intimacy had dissipated now. If he had intended to go back on his word, he’d had every opportunity to do it. She yawned and drew the coverlet higher, letting her body relax. As the bed warmed the feeling of drowsiness increased.

 And then she was not alone any more…

Torstein brought his mouth down hard on hers, forcing her jaws open, furred tongue thrusting into her mouth. Half-suffocated by the stink of carious breath and stale mead, Anwyn clenched her fists at her sides, forcing herself to endure it, knowing only too well what the penalty would be for resistance. He groaned now and the kiss grew deeper, bruising her lips, his teeth grating against hers. Eventually he came up for air and smiled, revealing stained teeth.

 ‘Turn over.’

 Her stomach wallowed. ‘Please, Torstein, I don’t—’

 ‘Perhaps you’d like me to take my belt to you first?’

 ‘No, my lord.’

 ‘Then you’ll get on to your hands and knees—now.’

 She sat up with a start, panting, heart pounding, eyes staring into the shadows at the edges of the room.

 ‘Anwyn? What is it?’

 The sound of a male voice elicited a gasp of fright.

 ‘It’s all right. There’s no one here to hurt you, my sweet. It was just a bad dream.’

 Gradually the voice filtered through the mental turmoil and she lowered herself on the bed again, letting out a long breath. Not Torstein after all: Wulfgar.

 He sat on the side of the bed, looking into her face. ‘Why, you’re shaking. What manner of dream was it that could scare you so?’